


Baby Sybil with a sword

by laminated_newspaper



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Book: Night Watch, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 12:12:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18964993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laminated_newspaper/pseuds/laminated_newspaper
Summary: It is what it says on the package. Sybil, younger, she fights "John Keel" with a sword.





	Baby Sybil with a sword

**Author's Note:**

> In honor of the glorious 25th of May!  
> I've always wanted more of baby Sybil, and wished she'd shown up in Night Watch a little more. There's nothing shippy here either by the way, just making that clear.

Sybil’s father had taught her to fight, or rather how to finish a fight in less than ten seconds. Boys could fight by the rules he’d told her, but the kind of fighting girls got up to was either play fighting or fighting for one’s life. He’d explained where to kick for maximum pain, and where to bite and scratch. Most importantly however, her father had taught her to stand powerful, stand strong, and not to let your opponent know you’re frightened.

She found herself to be less frightened then she figured she ought to be, as she stood in the doorway of the drawing room. The butler, Mr. Foresight lay in a crumpled heap on the carpet, and standing in the front doorway to the estate was an intruder. 

Like a swamp dragon this intruder was small, angry, and looked as though he would either physically or metaphorically explode where he stood. It wasn’t often that Sybil compared people to dragons, considering both parties would consider it an insult, but this man looked it. 

His greying hair and little wrinkles on his dark skin meant he was probably in his forties. Something about him looked so familiar, something about his face, like trying to remember someone one has met once at a party five years prior. He dressed as though he’d rolled out of a gutter and smelled like it to, she resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose. His face was covered in both an eyepatch and a lot of blood, it was dripping down onto his ugly, battered, and torn coat.

She’d heard muffled shouting from the hallway, that’s why she’d come in, but it was now silent, deathly silent. The man was just standing there, looking at her like he’d been hit by a runaway coach. Emotions were flying across his face that she had trouble reading, hope, shock, fear, sadness. Sybil didn’t like it, this intruder looked like he knew her, but she sure didn’t know him. She wracked her brain, no, she would definitely remember a face like that, even if it was half covered. He looked half mad no doubt, but he also looked like a man who was worth remembering. 

Remembering what her father told her and not taking her eyes off the man, Sybil reached for the zweihander that was always on show in the front hallway. It was solid and heavy with the weight of metal and hundreds of deaths. Her ancestors had gripped this same sword with honor and courage, she felt stronger because of it.

Sybil put on her best ‘lady Ramkin voice’ and bellowed “Did you do that to Mr. Foresight?” Her voice came out a lot weaker than she had intended, but the man jumped liked he’d been punched. Sybil lifted the zweihander between them, using her strength to make sure it didn’t waver. The man put his hands up in a placating gesture. His knees seemed to buckle for a second and he muttered something unintelligible. 

“Did you do that to Mr. Foresight?” she repeated. Taking a slow step forward. Her father’s voice said that she needed to make sure she was on the offensive, not the defensive. This man was in her house, and she was the one with the sword. 

Sybil took another step forward, and he took a step back. The intruder yelped and his eyes focused as though he’d just come out of a long internal thought. “Wrong house!” He whirled around, and almost tripping over the butler, crookedly sprinted out of the door.

“Terribly sorry for bothering you, wrong house.” and something else unintelligible was shouted as he left, she didn’t hear it over the sound of his loud and clumsy footsteps.  
Sybil waited a few nervous seconds before she shuffled to the doorway. She didn’t lower the sword as she stopped in front of the door. The front lawn was empty, and so was the street, except for a quiet street sweeper a long ways off. She let herself relax enough to breathe a sigh of relief. 

 

Running footsteps from behind her heralded a panting scullery boy, clutching a broom in one hand and a . “I’m coming Mr. Fores-” he stopped lamely in front of the scene before him. Sybil lowered the sword and nodded at him to continue. “Heard someone call me name and I came ‘a running.” he paused and grimaced “You seemed to have, um, handled the situation just fine.” 

Sybil went to close the front door, squinting at the scullery boy as she shut the massive oak door behind her. He was new, she knew that, some boy Mr. Foresight had picked up off the street and offered a well paying job on the condition he didn’t nick anything. He was probably older than Sybil, but he stood and talked like a street urchin, the kind of boy who hid gang tattoos beneath his sleeves “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Willikins, ma’am.” He watched her as Sybil hefted the sword back into its rightful spot on the wall. “You’re mighty strong.”

“Are you strong Willikins?”

“Yes ma’am, I can knock out a fella’ twice my age with a single punch.”

Sybil looked at him and sighed before nodding “A valuable skill no doubt, but I just need you to help me carry Mr. Foresight to a chair of some kind so he doesn’t wake up on the ground.” 

“Oh, I can help with that alright.” he hoisted the older butler’s feet while Sybil lifted the man’s shoulders. They awkwardly shuffled him onto a couch in the drawing room.  
“What happened to you and the Mister Foresight?” said Willikins as he tentatively picked up his broom again. “I heard him call me, but…” he trailed off and they both looked at the knocked out man, snoring on the couch.

“Some crazy sod barged in the house. I think he punched him and then he split when I arrived and showed him a bit of the old Ramkin steel.” Sybil collapsed into one of the plush purple armchairs, and dragged a hand across her face.

Willikins theatrically shuddered. She knew that he’d probably heard of worse by growing up on the streets, but she appreciated his effort to empathize. “Did you know who he was? What did the fella want here?” he scratched at his blond hair.

“No idea.” Sybil sighed staring window. It was dark, and she couldn’t see anything but she wondered where the man had gone. Why had he called her name when he'd come in? What had he wanted? He’d obviously out of his right mind, but she hoped he wouldn’t get hurt by the night watch or something by wandering about after curfew. “No idea who he was at all….”


End file.
